The Samurai's Daughter

by Sujata Massey

  In the softly lit bar at the top of the hotel, we checked our coats. I stood next to Hugh, looking out at the sprinkling of people at the intimate tables that ringed the room. There weren’t many people having drinks at a hotel on Christmas Eve. As I’d expected, most of them were casually dressed tourists. My little black dress would make me look like a lounge singer, or worse. We had to go halfway around the restaurant before Hugh spotted his party—a Caucasian man in his fifties wearing a proper business suit and a younger Asian-American wearing a sweater and khakis.

  “So glad you could join us,” the older man said, making a gesture of half-rising for us, but not coming up all the way. Hugh shook his hand and that of the younger man.

  “Charles, Eric, this is Rei Shimura. Darling, I’d like you to meet—”

  “The Rei Shimura?” the Asian-American interrupted Hugh in mid-sentence.

  I turned from Charles Sharp, whom I’d been blasting with a megawatt smile. Who was this other person who knew my last name? He looked too young to be one of my father’s acquaintances, but he didn’t look like anyone I remembered from Berkeley.

  “Rei, may I introduce Eric Gan,” Hugh said in his iciest, most BBC voice—as if he’d seen Eric’s inspection of me, and been annoyed. “He’s providing language interpretations for the interviews I’ll be conducting while in town.”

  I looked more closely at the young man, who had black hair snipped in a close, trendy hairstyle around his angular-featured face. He was just a few inches taller than I, and looked the way I imagined my brother might—if I’d had a brother.

  “I guess you don’t recognize me,” Eric said.

  I smiled politely as I raced through all the associations that made sense. Eric Gan. The name was familiar, definitely part of the memory bank. He was too young to be one of my parents’ contemporaries. He could only be someone I’d studied with, or known socially, or—then I got it. Eric Gan. I’d practically forgotten his name, because it had been so long ago.

  “Eric! From ALL Japanese class!”

  “Yeah.” Eric turned to the others. “We were both in Mrs. Yamada’s Japanese class for years. We had an independent study project together when we were fourteen.”

  “That’s right, so we did. Oh, Eric, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you right away. It’s been so long, and you’re, well, a man now. And a multilingual lawyer at that.” I beamed at him.

  “Oh, I’m not an attorney. As your boyfriend said”—Eric gave Hugh a playful glance, emphasizing the word—” I’m just an interpreter. When you and I were at ALL together, I was just doing Tagalog, Japanese, and Mandarin, but I went on to pick up Cantonese, Vietnamese, and Bahasa Malaysia—”

  “Bahasa Malaysian. That certainly is impressive,” Hugh said, pulling out a chair for me.

  “Bahasa Malaysia, not Malaysian.” Eric wrinkled his nose at Hugh. “It’s a subtle thing, but that’s the way foreign languages work.”

  “Ah, the waiter’s here. Let’s order our drinks,” I said hastily. Eric always had had a snide side to him—that’s why I’d never been close to him, though we’d experimented a bit in our early teens. I ordered a wine spritzer, since I was driving home, and Hugh ordered his usual whisky with water on the side. When the waiter departed, Charles Sharp asked me what ALL was.

  “The Asian Languages League,” I said, settling back and feeling grateful for his diplomacy. “It’s a nonprofit that was formed in the early seventies by Asian-American families who wanted their kids to have exposure to the languages of their heritage. It was also a bridge to all the Asian immigrants coming in.”

  “Let me make a note of it,” Charles said, taking a small notebook from his breast pocket. “ALL. That could be a good source to notify about our services for potential plaintiffs—”

  “My father’s the group president right now. Hugh can talk to him about it.” Feeling cheered by how well things were going, I sipped my spritzer. I’d have liked to have another, but I knew I was going to have to be more careful about drinking than I was in Japan. There, I never drove; here, I was in command of my mother’s SUV.

  “Dr. Shimura’s quite a guy. Have you met him yet?” Eric turned to Hugh.

  “Yes, in Washington a month ago.”

  “They called him the daimyo back when we were kids. Still do, probably.”

  “‘Daimyo’?” Charles Sharp asked, giving Eric a slight frown.

  “A daimyo is a Japanese lord, the kind of guy who had the samurai at his beck and call, who in turn extorted money from the peasants.” Eric took a hefty swig of his beer. “You should have seen Rei’s father during the league’s annual fund-raiser. My mother kept the phone off the hook for most of December, she was so afraid of being forced to give up more than she could afford.”

  “That doesn’t sound like my father. He was completely mild-mannered,” I protested.

  “Think back to a certain Sunday afternoon in the spring of 1986,” Eric said, winking at me. “I’m sure Rei remembers, but she might not want to talk about it.”

  “What a good memory you have, Eric,” Hugh said. “With your attention to detail, I’m going to expect the translation work to be world-class.”

  “Eric’s top-drawer,” Charles Sharp said with an edge of irritation. “He’s done about a dozen survivor interviews for us already, and there have been no complaints.”

  “Will Eric be following Hugh to Japan to assist with the interviews there?” I asked, knowing what I wanted the answer to be: No.

  “Probably. After all, he’s a trusted member of our team.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Eric said, then turned to me with a smile he must have thought was seductive. “Guess you can show me around Tokyo in the off hours, Rei.”

  “We’ll do our best,” I said faintly. “I’m sure that once home, I’ll be as busy as Hugh is. I’m working on a history project and I have an antiques business on the side…”

  “Oh, really? I collect Asian antiques,” Charles said. “Where is your shop?”

  We chatted on about the business I’d set up hunting for pieces that people dreamed about, but couldn’t find. I tried to say enough to steer the conversation away from the dangerous territory where it had been, but not so much as to seem like an egomaniac. At last, I said, “Enough about me. I’m interested in hearing the long-range goals of your project. Hugh hasn’t told me much, but I sense it’s going to take some terrific teamwork between his firm in Washington and yours.”

  “Yes, we’re relying on Hugh and his understanding of the Japanese psyche to help us along in Japan, just as Eric is so useful with Tagalog speakers. I understand the interview with the potential plaintiff went very well. I’m looking forward to seeing the transcript,” Charles said.

  “I’ll have it for you by the time we meet again,” Eric said.

  I waited for Hugh to mention that he had some new details from the tape he’d made during our recent visit, but he didn’t say anything. Then I remembered that my voice was on the tape. Maybe he didn’t want to reveal that I’d been along on the visit. I wished Charles would say more about the case, but I had to be sure I didn’t reveal that I knew more than was proper.

  “So, what are your plans for Christmas?” Charles Sharp turned his gimlet gaze on me.

  “Well, I’m visiting my parents here for the week. The goal is to give them and Hugh a chance to get to know each other.”

  “Yes, and as the new boyfriend in town you can imagine how nervous I am.” Hugh glanced at his watch. “Actually, sir, Rei’s mother is expecting us for shepherd’s pie in ten minutes. We’re going to have to beg your pardon.”

  “Have you become a meat-eater, Rei?” Eric asked as I stood up to gather my things.

  “No. I’ve gotten my family to use Quorn in place of ground beef. It’s the most amazing, all-natural protein source—”

  “It’s a fungus that grows underground in England,” Hugh said, grinning. “The weird thing is it actually tastes good.”

  “Uh-huh,” Eric said
, looking about as unconvinced as Charles Sharp. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry about serving that at the party. I’m bringing a tray of my famous vegetarian lumpia.”

  “Which party?” Hugh asked, knitting his brow.

  “The Shimuras invited me to their party,” Eric said, sounding triumphant. “ALL has a holiday gathering every year, and this year it’s at their place.”

  Feeling conscious of the one person in the cluster who had been left out, I said, “Mr. Sharp, our house is open to you as well. Please come—my parents would love to meet a neighbor.”

  “Do you live in Pacific Heights?” He sounded surprised.

  “Yes, on Green Street. You’ll know the house from the flag waving out front.”

  “The rising sun?”

  “At the moment it’s the Union Jack, because Hugh’s with us.”

  “Well, Miss Shimura, I’ll try. I live over on Washington Street myself. We’re not much for flag-waving there.”

  “I’ll take the elevator down with you,” Eric volunteered. When we got to the lobby, he didn’t go his own way but waited around while the valet pulled up with my mother’s SUV.

  “Nice wheels, Rei.”

  “Oh, they’re my mother’s.”

  “You never have your own car. I remember your mother’s old Camry well—the backseat especially.”

  As Hugh turned to gape at me in horror, I snapped, “It was the backseat because we were fourteen years old and had to be driven places!”

  I stormed over to the driver’s side and slammed the door. I would have burned rubber getting out of there, if the valet hadn’t been standing in the way because I’d forgotten to tip him.

  6

  “I’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so much,” Hugh said. “Three weeks ago I was trying to make peace with your last ex-lover, and now I learn there’s another one to get used to.”

  “Eric wasn’t technically my lover. We were just kids, believe me.”

  “If that’s true, what did your father walk in on that day in 1986 that was so damn marvelous Eric Gan’s never forgotten it?”

  “It’s all goes back to those language classes,” I said, deciding that I would have to be forthcoming—but that I’d put things in the most gentle terms possible. “Eric and I were so far ahead of the others—Eric in terms of his kanji knowledge, and me because I spoke good colloquial Japanese—that we’d been given independent study assignments. We’d finished our projects early, but instead of telling the teacher we were done and needed more work, we played hooky. We would hang around my house, since my parents usually were out doing things together on Sunday afternoons. My parents were smart enough not to trust me with a house key, but they didn’t realize that I was small enough to fit in through the milk door. On more than one Sunday, we slipped in that way. The last time we did this we were fooling around in the kitchen. We provided a real eyeful for my father, who it turned out had been home.”

  Hugh was starting to smile. “Jesus. What happened then?”

  “Unfortunately, Eric tried to escape through the milk door, but he moved too fast and got the rivets of his Levi’s caught on a nail. He actually had to slip out of his jeans to get free, and in the process he got scratched on his bottom and started howling with pain. Ultimately my father got involved in examining the injury—”

  “Oh, my God. There should be a law against that kind of thing.” Hugh was laughing so hard that I could see tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “In this politically correct city, maybe there is a law.”

  “Thanks for understanding.” I kissed Hugh on his cheek. “I’m sure that Eric’s coming to that party just to rib me, but you don’t have to worry that he’s any sort of threat. He’s such a phony. The truth is that his famous vegetarian lumpia comes from a Filipino grocery, though he always tries to pass it off as his own. If you want to get back at him, you should ask him his recipe.”

  “I’ll try to take the higher road. But you can’t blame me if I ask him if he’s traveled through any milk doors lately.”

  “Just don’t say anything to my parents about this. I think they’ve forgotten.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” But from the glint in Hugh’s eyes, I knew he really wanted to.

  “Here you are!” my mother trilled as she opened the front door to us. I had to knock because, even at my age, I still didn’t have my own house key.

  “The shepherd’s pie smells divine. Far better than the frozen ones that have been sustaining me for the last few years away from home,” Hugh said, ambling toward the kitchen.

  “We’ll be eating in the dining room,” my mother called after him.

  “I’ll be there in a sec. Rei wanted to show me an architectural detail in the kitchen first.”

  I hurried after him, muttering under my breath, “Don’t you believe me? The door is in the wall right behind the kitchen table—”

  “It’s not that I don’t believe you—I want to see the size of the door. I’m curious about exactly how small your bottom was at that time. Not to mention Eric’s.”

  “Yes, you can rib him about it if he gets obnoxious with you again,” I agreed.

  The view under the kitchen table, though, was obstructed by a long red-and-green Christmas tablecloth—and by my father, who was seated at the table reading The Annals of Psychiatry.

  “Oh, hello, sir!” Hugh stopped short, and I bumped into his back. “I mean, Dr. Shimura. I apologize for the interruption—”

  “Not at all,” my father said, rising and stretching his hand out to grasp Hugh’s. “I’ve been hoping for your return, because Catherine’s shepherd’s pie came out of the oven five minutes ago. And please call me Toshiro. Otherwise, I’ll feel as if we’re having an office visit.”

  “I hope that won’t be the case. I mean, I’ve got my imperfections, but one of the things I pride myself on is good mental health, though Rei’s the one I can credit for keeping me so happy.” Hugh gave me a fond look, which made me blush.

  “Hugh, would you care to try a California cabernet?” my mother asked. “I’ve been waiting for the last two years to open a certain ‘97 from the Sonoma Valley.”

  “It sounds scrumptious, but I’m likely to nod off if I have more alcohol. I had a small whisky at the hotel which hit me like a ton of bricks.”

  “Don’t worry, then, we’ll save it for tomorrow’s Christmas lunch,” my mother said.

  “Mom! What about me?” I demanded.

  “Wine? Oh, that’s right, you’re old enough to drink. I almost forgot. Manami never touches wine,” my mother said, giving a fond glance to the young woman, who had been quietly walking around the table pouring water into everyone’s glass.

  “Here, let me open the bottle,” Hugh said, taking the bottle from my mother, who was struggling with the fancy corkscrew I’d given her a few holidays back. “I’ll take a taste, because who knows when I’ll ever have the chance for a Sonoma ‘97 again?”

  “Many more times, if you stay in this neighborhood. And pour a big glass for me—I’ve had quite a day.”

  As we settled around the twenty-foot-long mahogany table—my mother had already put in the extra leaves, given that the ALL party was a few days away—she told us about her day. The problems had started when the plum pudding had arrived smelling off. The deliveryman was gone by this point, so she’d called Williams-Sonoma to arrange for a replacement, but they didn’t know when he could come back. Then, while looking for Asian-themed cocktail napkins at Gumps, she’d also noticed a lavish display of Japanese kimono sashes. “Three hundred dollars per obi, Rei. While you’re here, darling, you should go in and get an appointment with them, see if you could become their obi importer. Why, out of the collection you’ve amassed for yourself, surely there are a few dozen you could part with.”

  The story of my mother’s day irritated me; it seemed so trivial, given what we’d seen of Rosa’s life. I frowned and said, “Right now, the thought of selling my own collection doesn’t really appeal to me. I
mean, we’ve lost so much of what Dad had.” I turned directly to my father. “Didn’t you sell some old family possessions back in the seventies?”

  “Why would I do that?” He frowned at me.

  “Of course you did!” My mother rapped him playfully on the knuckles, then spoke to all of us. “We sold a few things that were worth money but didn’t have deep emotional significance back in the mid-seventies to put together enough cash for a good down payment on this house. I sold an old Baltimore quilt that had belonged to a great-great-aunt, and Toshiro sold a document that belonged to his grandfather. Of course, it would be nice if we still had those things, but we had to do what we could to get a decent roof over our heads.”

  “‘Decent’ isn’t the word for it,” Hugh cut in. “It’s a beautiful house. And if you bought in the seventies, the appreciation in its appraised value must be tremendous.”

  “Well, thank you for the compliment. And the truth is, the house has risen in value—much more than the quilt and the letter could have brought if we went to Hopewell’s today. It would be unheard of today for people like us to be able to buy a house in this neighborhood. It turned over mostly to computer people a few years ago, though now some of them have had to sell, so it’s back to CEOs and lawyers again.”

  “Speaking of lawyers, Charles Sharp lives around here,” I said. When my parents looked blank, I added, “Charles is one of the principals in Sharp, Witter and Rowe, the law firm Hugh’s consulting with right now. Oops. Is it all right that I said that, Hugh?”

  “Sure,” Hugh said. “I’d like to get their thoughts on the case as well. Although I must warn you, it’s not a particularly pleasant dining topic.”

  “Really? Do tell, we’re all grown-ups here, it’s all right!” my mother said, giggling. Clearly, the wine had gone to her head.

  Hugh shook his head. “All right. In a nutshell, what’s happened is that Andrews and Cheyne, the firm I work for in Washington, have joined up with the local firm Rei mentioned to mount a class action seeking reparations for the Asian and American victims who were slave laborers of Japanese zaibatsu during World War II.”